The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2. Bowles William Lisle

thou art pander to the criminal!

      He who thus edifies his Christian flock,

      Moves, more than even the Bethel-trotting Miss,

      My pity, my aversion, and my scorn.

      Cry aloud! – Oh, speak in thunder to the soul

      That sleeps in sin! Harrow the inmost heart

      Of murderous intent, till dew-drops stand

      Upon his haggard brow! Call conscience up,

      Like a stern spectre, whose dim finger points

      To dark misdeeds of yore! Wither the arm

      Of the oppressor, at whose feet the slave

      Crouches, and pleading lifts his fettered hands!

      Thou violator of the innocent

      Hide thee! Hence! hide thee in the deepest cave,

      From man's indignant sight! Thou hypocrite!

      Trample in dust thy mask, nor cry faith, faith,

      Making it but a hollow tinkling sound,

      That stirs not the foul heart! Horrible wretch!

      Look not upon the face of that sweet child,

      With thoughts which hell would tremble to conceive!

      Oh, shallow, and oh, senseless! In a world

      Where rank offences turn the good man pale,

      Who leave the Christian's sternest code, to vent

      Their petty ire on petty trespasses,

      If trespasses they are; – when the wide world

      Groans with the burthen of offence; when crimes

      Stalk on, with front defying, o'er the land,

      Whilst, her own cause betraying, Christian zeal

      Thus swallows camels, straining at a gnat!

      Therefore, without a comment, or a note,

      We love the Bible; and we prize the more

      The spirit of its pure unspotted page,

      As pure from the infectious breath that stains,

      Like a foul fume, its hallowed light, we hail

      The radiant car of heaven, amidst the clouds

      Of mortal darkness, and of human mist,

      Sole, as the sun in heaven!33

      Oh! whilst the car

      Of God's own glory rolls along in light,

      We join the loud song of the Christian host,

      (All puny systems shrinking from the blaze),

      Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

      Saldanna's34 rocks have echoed to the hymns

      Of Faith, and Hope, and Charity! Roll on!

      Till the wild wastes of inmost Africa,

      Where the long Niger's track is lost, respond,

      Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

      From realm to realm, from shore to farthest shore,

      O'er dark pagodas, and huge idol-fanes,

      That frown along the Ganges' utmost stream,

      Till the poor widow, from the burning pile

      Starting, shall lift her hands to heaven, and weep

      That she has found a Saviour, and has heard

      The sounds of Christian love! Oh, horrible!

      The pile is smoking! – the bamboos lie there,

      That held her down when the last struggle shook

      The blazing pile!35 Hasten, O car of light!

      Alas for suffering nature! Juggernaut,

      Armed, in his giant car goes also forth,

      Goes forth amid his red and reeling priests,

      While thousands gasp and die beneath the wheels,

      As they go groaning on, 'mid cries, and drums,

      And flashing cymbals, and delirious songs

      Of tinkling dancing girls, and all the rout

      Of frantic superstition! Turn away!

      And is not Juggernaut himself with us?

      Not only cold insidious sophistry

      Comes, blinking with its taper-fume, to light,

      If so he may, the sun in the mid heaven!

      Not only blind and hideous blasphemy

      Scowls in his cloak, and mocks the glorious orb,

      Ascending, in its silence, o'er a world

      Of sin and sorrow; but a hellish brood

      Of imps, and fiends, and phantoms, ape the form

      Of godliness, till godliness itself

      Seems but a painted monster, and a name

      For darker crimes, at which the shuddering heart

      Shrinks; while the ranting rout, as they march on,

      Mock Heaven with hymns, till, see! pale Belial

      Sighs o'er a filthy tract, and Moloch marks,

      With gouts of blood, his brandished magazine!

      Start, monster, from the dismal dream! Look up!

      Oh! listen to the apostolic voice,

      That, like a voice from heaven, proclaims, To faith

      Add virtue! There is no mistaking here;

      Whilst moral education by the hand

      Shall lead the children to the house of God,

      Nor sever Christian faith from Christian love.

      If we would see the fruits of charity,

      Look at that village group, and paint the scene!

      Surrounded by a clear and silent stream,

      Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray,

      A rural mansion on the level lawn

      Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade

      Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,

      Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees

      In front, the village church, with pinnacles

      And light gray tower, appears; whilst to the right,

      An amphitheatre of oaks extends

      Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,

      Where once a castle frowned, closes the scene.

      And see! an infant troop, with flags and drum,

      Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods,

      On to the table spread upon the lawn,

      Raising their little hands when grace is said;

      Whilst she who taught them to lift up their hearts

      In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"

      God, "their Creator," mistress of the scene

      (Whom I remember once as young), looks on,

      Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

      And we too bless them. Oh! away, away!

      Cant, heartless cant, and that economy,

      Cold, and miscalled "political," away!

      Let the bells ring – a Puritan turns pale

      To hear the festive sound: let the bells ring —

      A

33

The long controversial note appended to this poem has been purposely suppressed.

34

I forget in what book of travels I read an account of a poor Hottentot, who being brought here, clothed, and taught our language, after a year or two was seen, every day till he died, on some bridge, muttering to himself, "Home go, Saldanna."

35

See Bishop Heber's Journal. Yet the Shaster, or the holy book of the Hindoos, says, "No one shall be burned, unless willingly!"